


it does ripple

by lymricks



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Post S3, angst with a happy ending! is my favorite!, some darkness re:billy's thoughts about death and dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 16:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymricks/pseuds/lymricks
Summary: Billy doesn’t say goodbye. He thunders down the stairs, an approximation of what he used to be, thundering and loud and pissed and he knows that he has bigger problems than the boy he likes who doesn’t like him, but this feels like the biggest problem in the world, right now.Maybe that’s reassuring. Maybe it’s nice that he’s wondering about a crush or whatever like some boring chick. It’s normal, at least. After the summer, almost nothing in Billy’s life is normal, so. Yeah. It’s nice. Maybe it’s just--maybe it’s just nice.(It isn't).





	it does ripple

Billy isn’t going to _talk_ about the fact that he’s sitting in Harrington’s bed again.

He’s sitting in Harrington’s bed a lot, lately. Sometimes even when Harrington is actually _in it_. He’s still not sure what this is, but Harrington seems sure of a lot of shit, and that leaves a weird taste in the back of Billy’s mouth. Billy’s playing with a loose thread on the comforter when the door opens and Harrington’s standing in the frame.

“Aren’t you too rich for your comforter to be shredding?” Billy asks him, looking up.

Harrington does this weird, half smile that he does all the time, now. It’s August. Everyone is tired and Indiana is too goddamn hot. “My parents will be home soon,” Harrington says.

It’s the kind of half sentence he says all the time, now. It says almost nothing. It _means_ almost everything. Billy’s getting out of bed almost before Harrington’s done speaking, and he hates that. Billy’s left a lot of beds in the middle of the night. He’s kicked some people out of beds in the middle of the night. He didn’t know _this_ was what that felt like.

He knows now. Harrington does it all the time. His fingers on Billy’s sides or thighs are always so fucking _sweet_ when it’s dark out, but Harrington always wakes up before Billy does, and he always suggests Billy leaves.

Not in any real way. He never says _you should go_. He just says these sentences that should end in _so you should go home_. Billy always wants them to end in, _but it’s fine, you can stay_.

Billy’s sure as shit not going to _tell_ Harrington that, though, so he’s left looking like it doesn’t matter as he climbs out of bed and reaches for his shirt. He’s left looking like he’s all _good_ with this kind of thing as he hops to tug his jeans up, buttons them. He drops down on the bed again to yank on socks and the boots that Harrington thinks are too hot for summer, and then he’s walking out of Harrington’s bedroom door.

This is another moment where Billy expects a kiss or a touch, and maybe expect is the wrong word, but holy _hell_ does he _want that_, but when he walks by, Harrington steps back just enough to make room, and Billy can feel the warmth off Harrington’s skin when he walks by, but.

They don’t touch.

Billy doesn’t say goodbye. He thunders down the stairs, an approximation of what he used to be, thundering and loud and _pissed_ and he knows he has bigger problems than the _boy he likes_ who _doesn’t like him_, but this feels like the biggest problem in the world, right now.

Maybe that’s reassuring. Maybe it’s fucking _nice_ that he’s wondering about a _crush_ or whatever like some boring fucking chick. It’s normal, at least. After the summer, almost nothing in Billy’s _life_ is normal, so. Yeah. It’s nice. Maybe it’s just--maybe it’s just _nice_.

(It isn’t).

~

Billy has scars and bad dreams at least four nights a week, but at least sometimes in the middle of the night, Harrington’s fingers will trace the curve of his spine and his lips will say _shhh_.

Billy doesn’t think _shh_ would comfort fucking _anyone_, but he appreciates the effort. He thinks Harrington has bad dreams, too, but he doesn’t like to be touched after nightmares. He likes to get out of bed and pace the room, go down the stairs. Sometimes he’ll go outside, to the edge of the woods in his backyard, and he’ll stare out into it while Billy watches from the window, never sure if he’s more afraid of the dark or intruding.

Sometimes, if Billy doesn’t react to whatever Harrington’s going through, he’ll get back into bed.

Sometimes, he’ll come back into the room and stand in the doorway and say, “I have to be at work early,” even though they both know Harrington works at a fucking _rentals place_ and there’s no _way_ he has to be there _early_.

Billy wakes up breathing hard, but not screaming. Harrington says he never screams, which Billy thinks is bullshit. It’s a weird thing for Harrington to be lying about, but then again, there’s no goddamn honesty anywhere in this bed, and Billy feels _lost_, so it’s better to say that Harrington is lying about this, because then he can believe that Harrington is a _liar_.

Billy pulls his knees to his chest and drops his face down into them. He breathes slowly and deeply, like the doctors told him to, when this happened the first, second, third, fourth times. He does it now, not really because it works, but more because if he didn’t have _something_ to do, he thinks that he might die of his bad dreams.

_Don’t be such a fucking pussy_, says a voice in his head that he won’t give a name to, not anymore, but he knows it’s right, that he’s being _weak_ again.

No one strong would’ve done what he did. No one strong would’ve recovered.

“Billy?” Harrington’s voice is soft with sleep. Billy can hear him moving, the sheets rustling as Harrington shifts his weight. _Get away from me_! Billy wants to scream, but doesn’t. Even in his waking life, Billy doesn’t scream much, anymore.

The doctor he sees once a week to check for _complications_\--they say that like Billy doesn’t know they’re waiting to see if there’s something still inside him--says that it’s only been six weeks, says that he should give it time.

Billy thinks--and so does the doctor, and so does Harrington, probably--that his good health has less to do with miracles and more to do with dormant monsters. It’s worse than waiting to die, he’s decided, because he spends all this fucking time waiting to _kill_ again. Billy didn’t know, when he was younger, what destruction _really_ was.

Now he wants a house on the beach and--a dog, or something. Maybe a cat. Maybe something quiet, like he is now, and he never wants to _see anyone_\--

“Billy? You all right?” Harrington asks, and he’s sitting up, now, wrapping an arm around Billy’s shoulders, tugging him into his side.

Okay, Billy can admit it, he wants--in that quiet house on the beach, hidden by seagrass and the sound of the ocean--to see just one person.

“Fine,” Billy says, even though he slumps into Harrington, dropping his legs and his arms so he can press his nose against his neck.

Harrington shudders and for a second, Billy thinks, _you hate me too, huh_? but then Harrington says, “Your nose is fucking cold,” and for a little while, Billy gets to lie against him, just like this, until his breathing settles down. 

Eventually, though, Harrington says, “Dustin’s coming over for breakfast,” and even though breakfast is _hours_ away, Billy gets up, pulls his shirt on, and leaves.

~

At school, when it’s time to go back, everyone avoids him. Billy had prepared for this, even though the doctors said, and Max said, _hey, they’ll probably have questions, you survived the fire, so_.

Billy had to survive the fire because no one had gotten his _body_ out fast enough, and there had been photos. Billy could have been anonymous, in this, but they didn’t care enough to get him out, too busy collecting samples of blood and goop, and watching him heal in increments, and so a photo of Billy had been captured--and it had been an accident, it wasn’t supposed to have him _in it_\--and then he’d had to be listed as someone who was there.

The only one who made it out alive. A hero, they’d told him, someone special, but Billy had known better.

The world likes Billy Hargrove one way: snarling, angry, mean. He isn’t that, anymore. Harrington isn’t in these fucking hallways, anymore, so Billy can’t make eye contact with anyone who knows.

Billy’s spent a lot of his life feeling lonely, but now he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching it as it happens, the lonely boy, the lone survivor. He keeps crawling into Harrington’s bed, whenever he’ll let him. He keeps having nightmares.

Harrington keeps giving him half smiles and half sentences, full reasons to leave, and Billy keeps leaving, because what the fuck _else_ is he supposed to do?

There’s a night that comes when Billy has a nightmare, when he’s shaking and falling apart, and Harrington doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t roll over and touch him. He doesn’t say _Billy_? soft and sweet. He only ever talks to Billy like that when it’s dark out, when they’re half asleep, and Billy can’t tell, anymore, if it’s honest or a lie or half a truth, but.

That night? It’s too much. Billy wants a house by the ocean. He doesn’t want the sea of Harrington’s sheets. He doesn’t want to wade in this fucking water anymore. It’s a riptide. He’s drowning. Harrington only looks like a lifeboat from far away. Up close, he’s a tidal wave, or maybe he’s a wave that’s seven feet, or maybe--

Billy gets out of bed. He dresses hurriedly, shakily. Harrington still doesn’t wake up, not even as Billy thunders down the stairs, desperate, suddenly, to get out of that _fucking house_ with this _fucking guy_ he’s fucking _in love with who never looks at him and--_

Billy could drown in that, he thinks, this secret his brain just told him, that he’s known for weeks now, but kept in the dark, this secret that he _hates_.

He throws himself into his new car--new because Harrington destroyed his former car, old because it’s a piece of shit he bought used for so little money he should’ve _known_ how bad it was going to be, but--

It gets him out of that driveway, that neighborhood. It gets him to the quarry, where there’s some semblance of quiet. They’re back to school, so there’s no risk of parties. They’re back to school, but also there’s no risk of parties because kids in Hawkins don’t really go out at night, right now, did you hear about all those dead people?

Billy gets out of that piece of shit car because he can’t make it all the way up the _fucking_ hill in it. It stalls too many times to be worth it and he feels just as useless as it is as he crests the top just in time for the sunrise. He stares out at it as goosebumps rise on his skin and he thinks about death and dying and _murdering all those people_.

Billy wraps his arms around himself and shivers. He’s in love with Harrington, who only ever suggests he get the fuck out. He’s fucked up, but he’s always known that, and somehow this seems _more_.

He’s fumbling for a pack of cigarettes when he looks down and realizes that he’s not in his shirt. He’s in Harrington’s shirt. Billy laughs and his voice cracks and he hates himself and--

“Billy?”

Billy jumps so hard he nearly throws himself over the edge it’s so fucking shocking. Harrington grabs him, though, around the wrist and _yanks_, and then Billy’s against Harrington’s chest. “Let go of me,” Billy says, but he doesn’t fight or shrug him off. “Just let me fucking _go_.”

Harrington doesn’t, though. He wraps his arms around Billy a little closer, a little tighter, and Billy doesn’t have the energy for fighting, anymore, and so he stays like that, pinned against Harrington’s chest for a while, as they both shiver and the sun creeps higher in the sky behind them.

“I was gonna make breakfast,” Harrington says, and Billy’s heart goes cold.

“Right,” Billy says. “Go. Fuck. I’m _fine_. Go make _fucking_ breakfast,” and this, Billy thinks, is how this is always going to end. The sun will rise, and Harrington will make his excuses, and Billy will go back to being watched, to being lonely, to being _alone_\--

“What?” Harrington says.

“I said I’m _good_. You don’t gotta _worry_,” Billy says, and it’s probably unconvincing, because he’s still in Harrington’s arms, still against his chest, and he’s making no moves _not_ to be. 

“Billy,” Steve says.

“I told you I’m _good_,” Billy says, and he would’ve yelled it, once, but he doesn’t do much yelling anymore.

Harrington sighs and his palm slides up and down Billy’s back. “You asshole,” he says. “I’m making _us_ breakfast. Why do you _always_ fucking leave?”

Billy pulls back enough that he can look up at Harrington’s face. “You always _ask_ me to,” he says.

Harrington stares at him. “Do you know _how many times_ I’ve tried to get you to meet my parents?” Harrington says, “Or to tell Dustin about us? Or to give me a ride to _work_ so you don’t have to use that hazard trap you call a car? But you always _leave_ when I start to tell you.”

Billy stares at him. “I thought you wanted me to go,” he says.

Harrington lets go of Billy, whose heart stops, but then he’s got Billy’s face in both hands. “I always want you to stay,” he says, and then they’re kissing and Billy’s got goosebumps that have nothing to do with a t-shirt and he feels a warmth that has nothing to do with the rising sun.

“I always want to stay,” Billy says, when they pause, breathless. “I _always_ want to stay,” he says again, and it’s nice, to say it out loud.

“How do you like your eggs?” Harrington asks him, and it’s not a joke, and it’s not really funny, but they both laugh and laugh and _laugh_ and--

It’s nice. It’s just--it’s really _nice_.


End file.
